All the Little Intimacies
by Mlee.Write
Summary: Tag for 6 x 22
1. Chapter 1

_**All the Little Intimacies**_

It took Teresa Lisbon all of two minutes to realize she needed to get off that plane. The first minute was devoted mostly to embarrassment and crying, the second to watching through the window as Jane was led inside the airport in handcuffs.

She felt as though a burden had been lifted off her shoulders, but a heavy weight placed there as well. She felt free, jubilant, knowing that he loved her. He _loved_ her. For the first time in entire relationship he had told her exactly what he thought, how he felt. She didn't have to wonder, second guess. He'd made himself vulnerable to her.

She was also bogged down by the knowledge that they could never come back from this. They could never be friends, only friends, again. Even though she loved him, Jane was still profoundly damaged, not excellent boyfriend material. And she had her own issues regarding commitment and control.

His confession, it seemed, had raised as many questions as it had answered.

One thing was certain though, she couldn't leave now. She had to be with him, with Jane. Her instinct to go rescue him, to comfort him, overrode her earlier anger. She'd told him he was too late, but he wasn't. He was just in time.

She stood up, collected her bag, and muttered a few apologies as she made her way off the plane. From behind her, the other passengers broke into applause.

The minute she hit the tarmac, she had her phone out, powering it back on. She had to do this cleanly.

"Teresa?" Marcus answered on the second ring. "Is your flight canceled?"

Her voice was husky with tears, and she knew the moment she spoke he'd know what was going on. "Marcus, I'm not coming. I'm sorry. I spoke too quickly when I accepted your proposal."

There. The words were out. It was like ripping a Band-Aid off a wound.

"If you need more time to think, I'll understand," he said gently.

She swallowed back another wave of tears, pushing the door to the airport opening, blinking in the fluorescent lights. "I don't. It's over Marcus. I'm sorry."

There was a pause, and then he said. "It's Jane."

She wasn't going to lie. "Yes."

He said some ugly things to her then, things she deserved to hear. She was surprised at his anger at first, but then realized that it was more in character than she'd known.

She had thought Marcus and Jane were opposites, but the truth was they were both controlling, manipulative, prideful. Perhaps that's what had drawn her to Marcus in the first place. Unlike Jane, who controlled all the pieces on the chessboard, who moved people around to suit his whims, Marcus didn't make his intervention apparent.

She realized then that while he had assured her that she was under no pressure, while he promised understanding and patience, he'd moved forward with his plans anyway. He'd gotten her a job in DC. He'd found them a house. He'd already decided on marriage, without even discussing how she felt about the subject. He simply moved forward while soothing her, expecting her to be caught up in the current and dragged along with him. She doubted he even knew he did it.

Marcus made it seem so easy to love him, so she'd never question her choice, so it would always been the smart thing to do. For a moment, she hated him a little, but then the hurt in his voice caused another wave of guilt to surge through her.

"Was this all just a way of getting his attention?" Marcus asked, his tone cutting.

"No," she said. "But I was in love with him all along, and I didn't realize it." That was a lie. She'd known, she'd just been terrified Jane would never feel the same way.

"So when you said you loved me?" Marcus asked. "When you were sleeping with me?"

"I was confused," she said. Suddenly she wasn't willing to have this conversation anymore, she was tired of justifying herself to him. "You moved too fast, and I was so overwhelmed I agreed to things I didn't really want. I'm sorry if I hurt you, but deserve to be with someone who really wants to be there."

He didn't reply.

She apologized again before hanging up. Then she called Abbot.

"Jane was arrested at the airport," she said calmly as soon as her boss answered.

"For?" Abbot asked, no surprise in his voice.

"Climbing a fence and sneaking aboard a plane," she replied. "He bypassed security entirely."

There was a sigh. "I'll make some calls." Then, "So, are you staying then?"

There was amusement in his voice, his tone close to paternal.

She bit her lip, tears threatening yet _again_. "Yeah, I am."

"That's good to hear, Agent Lisbon." And then he hung up.

XXX

It took some time before they allowed her to see Jane. Even as the enormity of his words hung over her, their practical implications troubled her more.

She was going to see Jane right after he'd confessed his love for her. She wondered if he'd take it back or forget or back pedal in some way, and her stomach hurt. She wondered if he'd want to date her, court her, woo her? Maybe he expected her to take the lead—the man hadn't dated in years.

But then he'd set up their time in Florida perfectly, hadn't he? The lodge, the dresses…

It was then, sitting outside a TSA holding cell, that she realized he'd intended on seducing her. She'd thought, when she'd thrown the water in his face, that he'd just planned on giving her second thoughts about Marcus. Now she realized he'd requested adjoining rooms. He'd selected the most romantic venue possible. He bought her dressed that clearly prevented the wearing of underwear. He'd planned on sleeping with her.

Her stomach did a little flip. The thought of being seduced by Patrick Jane was both exciting and totally terrifying. Suddenly she thought about his talented hands, his quick, nimble fingers, and her neck flushed.

It wasn't like she'd never thought about sleeping with him. She was pretty sure every woman at the CBI had at some point. She'd just never thought it might be a reality, or that it would be in the context of him being in love with her.

The enormity of that hit her again. He loved her. And he never did anything by halves.

She found a ladies room and pulled her toiletries out of her bag. She brushed her hair and wiped away her smeared mascara. She reapplied a little makeup, and then brushed her teeth. Just in case.

When she returned the guard told her she could see Jane. She tried to pretend her stomach wasn't trying to crawl up her throat when she opened the door.

He was sitting with one leg propped up, his ankle wrapped in an Ace Bandage. He looked tired, haggard, lost in thought. She wanted to reach out and touch him, just a hand on his shoulder. Instead she sat down.

"Hey," she said, forcing herself to be calm, to assume the persona she wore when she interrogated suspects.

His eyes lit up then, as he turned to face her. "Hi," he said, and his voice was dry and hoarse from his earlier tears.

"This is another fine pickle you've gotten yourself into," she remarked, the way she would have for any of his stupid stunts over the years. She didn't say, "You're an idiot and I love you too," even though she wanted to. She didn't circle the table and wrap her arms around his neck, even though she itched to do so.

His voice was soft. "I've seen worse, pickle-wise," he said.

"Yes you have," she agreed. "How's the ankle?"

"Eh, it's fine," he said. Then, "You didn't go to DC."

It was half statement, half question.

"No." There was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips, and it made her heart ache a little. "Did you mean what you said?" she asked. She had to hear it again. There couldn't be any ambiguity.

"Yes I did," he replied, his eyes never leaving hers.

Her heart ached more, and she swallowed thickly. "Good."

Then he said, "Just to be clear, we're talking about pickles, right?"

She wanted to sob and laugh and hit him. "No, the other thing," she said around a grin.

His voice was flirty, teasing, intimate. It was a tone she'd never heard before, and the fact that it was reserved for her alone didn't escape her. "Oh, _that_," he said, eyes crinkling.

"This is no joking matter," she said.

"Yes," he assured her. "I meant what I said, every word of it."

"Good," she told him softly. "Because I feel the same way."

He already knew. He must have. But she needed to tell him, to relieve him of the fear that she might reject him. She could see it creeping around the corners of his eyes, lurking at the edge of his obvious relief.

Instantly his face softened and his eyes were wet. "Well, that's lucky," he said, a little breathlessly, and she thought he might cry. She thought she might cry. She wanted to and sit in his lap, bury her face in his neck, cling to him.

That little flicker of anxiety was still there when he asked, "What about Pike?"

She didn't particularly care about Pike. "He'll understand," she said. He would, someday, she hoped. Right now she cared about Jane. Very much. "Say it again?" she asked.

"Say what again?" His expression had changed, intense, serious, and he was looking at her like something he wanted to consume, to devour.

She had never seen this look on his face before, utterly focused on her in a way that was absolutely sexual and adoring all at once. She didn't think he'd looked at anyone that way in twelve years. Her stomach fluttered, her cheeks flushed.

It was terrifying and exhilarating to have Patrick Jane look at her like that, and it left no doubt in her mind as to the nature of his feelings for her. How had he kept that heat hidden, she wondered?

But then he was standing up, leaning over the table. Her lips parted without her thinking about it, his hand trembling as it touched her chin, tilting her face up to meet his.

The kiss was gentle at first, hesitant. She savored the feel of it, warm and soft, then parted her lips, touching her tongue ever so slightly against his lips. He pressed forward and there wasn't any hesitation then, just desire and love all tangled up in the press of his mouth against hers. Her hand went to his cheek to steady herself, to keep him there.

"Hey!" She heard the guard shout. "Quit that!"

He was banging on the glass. She debated shooting him, but realized that would only delay their departure further.

Jane pulled back, wobbling on his good leg a bit, and his eyes were dark and intent, turned up at the corners as he smiled.

She bit her lip, grinned. "Ready to leave?"

"Absolutely," he said.

They ignored the guard, who was clearly irritated and just as clearly not in charge. She let Jane rest his weight on shoulder as he hobbled out into the hall. Abbot was there, talking to a main in a TSA uniform who looked unimpressed.

"Jane," Abbot said approaching them. His face was stoic, but she swore there was amusement in his eyes. "I have just spent the last hour keeping you out of jail and off the no-fly list."

"The FBI versus the formidable power of the TSA?" Jane asked. His arm was draped across her shoulders, ostensibly for balance, but he leaned into her body a little. "I'm surprised it took that long. Did you accidentally pack a full bottle of shampoo in your carry-on?"

She was going to stab him. They were still high off their first kiss and he was making bald jokes to their boss, just begging to get thrown in lock-up overnight.

Abbot's lips thinned, but the anger never materialized on the rest of his face. "You are suspended," he said. "Two weeks, no pay."

"Fair enough," Jane agreed.

Abbot turned to her then. "I expect it will take you time to cancel your arrangements to move to DC," he said. "In light of the recent changes regarding your transfer, I won't expect you back at immediately. Two weeks should be sufficient?"

She felt herself blush, not knowing why. "Yes, sir."

"Excellent," he said. "I better not see either of you for the next fourteen days. And when you do come back to work, you better have worked it out of your systems."

He didn't clarify what 'it' was, but they both knew.

And then with a small grin, Abbot turned on his heel and left them there.

"That was awkward," she said.

"Little bit," Jane agreed. He looked down at her intently. "I never checked us out this morning. We still have our rooms at the Blue Bird."

There was that tugging feeling in her stomach again. "Let's get a cab," she said quietly.

They rode back to the lodge in silence, both exhausted, overwhelmed. Jane seemed unwilling to part from her touch, his hand reaching for hers and holding it the entire cab ride.

Her mind began to spin from all the possibilities their new relationship offered. Should she call him Patrick? It seemed appropriate, but also not right. He was Jane. He would always be Jane.

Did he expect to take her bed right now? His ankle had to hurt, and they were both pushing twenty four hours without a shower or sleep. Did he even know how far he wanted to take this? How quickly?

What about birth control? Had he bought condoms when he thought about his plans for seduction? She was on the pill, but she always used condoms, always. She wondered then why the thought of it seemed unnecessary with him.

Maybe they should move slowly. They could rest today, then fly back to Austin and assess their new relationship once they were on familiar ground.

His hand squeezed hers.

She looked at him.

"Stop thinking so loud," he said.

She flushed. "Sorry, this is…new." She'd never started a relationship with someone she'd known and loved for twelve years.

He smiled at her, leaned over, kissed her cheek. "I love you," he whispered. And that was really all that mattered.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_**This chapter is for Starry. She'll know why…**_

He couldn't stop touching her. As they exited the cab he leaned heavily on her, not because his ankle was hurting all that much, but because then he could smell her hair and feel the warmth of her body against his.

The world felt different. Everything was a little too bright, the sun stinging his eyes, the yellow of the cab more vivid than he remembered. The air was clean and cool in his lungs. He felt lighter too, like he might float away—although that was likely low blood sugar.

Everything was open and new and brimming with potential. He realized that he was happy for the first time in twelve years, actually fully and completely happy without regret or guilt to taint it. Maybe this was the happiest he'd ever been considering that before, when Angela was still alive, he'd been unaware of what a precious gift he'd been given.

His arm tightened around Teresa's shoulders. Now he knew.

He limped up the steps, their hips bumping.

She loved him. He hadn't expected that actually. He'd hoped for it, desperately, but he didn't expect such blessings anymore.

"Wait here," she told him as soon as they entered the lobby. She handed him her overnight bag and jacket. He leaned against a wall, watching her go to the front desk to speak with the concierge.

He had been in love with her for a long time, realizing it only when Red John had answered her phone. Back then he'd been stupid enough to think that he had nothing to lose, that Red John—that the world—couldn't hurt him again as badly as he'd hurt when he found Charlotte and Angela. There was a comfort in knowing you could never experience that level of pain again.

Then he'd heard the sing-song voice of the serial killer, and he'd felt that same numb sensation in his hands, tasted that same acrid burning on his tongue, and he'd known how wrong he was. Terror had hit him like a bomb-blast. When he'd found her, alive but unconscious, he'd cried in relief.

He hadn't dared act on his feelings when Red John was still alive, and after he'd convinced himself to be content with what he had. He didn't deserve more. So he portioned his time with Lisbon, broke it apart, savoring each little moment, each little intimacy. Every casual touch was memorized, to be relived later when he felt low. Every friendly conversation, shared meal, companionable silence, he fed off them, like a starving man allowing himself just enough food to stay alive.

And then she's almost left him, and he knew he would die inside.

He watched her walk back from the front desk, whatever business she'd needed to take care presumably arranged. She smiled at him, and he felt himself smile in response, the action involuntary now.

She loved him. She hadn't actually said the words, but she loved him. And now, finally, he was entitled to all the little intimacies lovers shared. He could touch her without calculation, without timing it to be casual, friendly, without pulling away when he wanted to lean in. He could kiss her, stroke her hair, hold her in his arms. He could undress her, taste her, make love to her. He could call her Teresa at work and perhaps some horrible pet name at home. He could sleep in her bed.

That was assuming she'd permit him to do these things. He had every intention of taking liberties and stealing kisses though. He was not going to keep his hands to himself.

To illustrate that last sentiment, he made sure his hand brushed her backside a few times as they made their way to their rooms. She smiled at him, eyes glittering, amused and exasperated.

He'd had a quiet obsession with her delectable backside for years.

She unlocked the door to his room and paused, taking in broken glass, tipped over furniture and what appeared to be a blood stain on the floor.

"Did I mention we caught the killers?" he asked.

"I see that," she remarked. "I suggest you tip housekeeping generously." She looked at him. "Maybe we should go to my room for the time being."

There was nothing suggestive in her tone, but heat coiled low in his belly, warring with exhaustion. He let her take the lead, hobbling into the room and sitting on the bed. She dropped her bag onto a chair and regarded him seriously.

"I haven't showered in twenty-four hours," she said. "Or slept. I need a nap."

He felt a little relieved that she wasn't expecting sexual gymnastics right now.

He could see that her eyes were swollen from tears still, that her hair was a little limp, her clothes rumpled. He felt her exhaustion acutely.

"How's the ankle?" she asked.

It wasn't actually bothering him very much, but he decided to milk it for pity. "Tender," he replied. He pulled off his shoe and unwound the bandage he'd been given. TSA had been very adamant about treating his injury, clearly setting themselves up to forestall litigation. He pulled off his sock and regarded his pale foot. His ankle was swollen, but not badly. He rotated it, wincing when a twinge of pain hit him. It was minor though. He suspected his body was dumping dopamine into his blood stream, enough happy juice to ward off any real pain.

"Ow," he said, making a face. He touched the swelling delicately.

Teresa's motherly instincts kicked in. "Here," she said. She grabbed a pillow and moved it to the end of the bed, motioning for him to lie down. He propped himself up against the headboard and rested his foot on the pillow. He folded his hands in his lap.

"I love you," he said brightly. Because he could.

She grinned as she opened her overnight bag. "So I've heard." She took out the Ziploc baggie she'd kept her allotted three-ounce liquids in and shook the shampoo and soap out. Tea tree oil shampoo, he knew. Not that he'd ever stood in the health and beauty section of a department store, smelling the soaps in order to determine her brand. That would imply a level of obsession he wasn't comfortable admitting to.

She left the room, returning moments later with a bucket of ice.

She filled the bag, retrieved a washcloth from the bathroom, then laid the cloth followed by the ice on his ankle. He watched her efficient movements with contentment. He wondered how many sprained ankles and wrists she'd tended to over the years. He remembered her father's abusive nature and banished a sudden twinge of sadness away.

He consoled himself by staring down the front of her shirt as she bent over his foot, peering into the dark vee of her cleavage.

She looked up, caught him ogling. "Really?" she asked. "We kissed for the first time an hour ago."

"Ah yes," he replied. "But I've looked lecherously at your body for twelve years. I just never let you catch me."

"Oh I caught you," she replied.

"You did not," he said.

"You've got a pretty high opinion of yourself," she remarked teasingly. She walked around the bed to kiss him, and he cupped the back of her head, anchoring her in place. He traced her lips with his tongue until she opened her mouth, and then there was the warm velvet of her tongue against his. When she pulled back he nibbled her lower lip.

She stood up. "I know why you used to sleep facing my office and not the bullpen," she said, grinning. "It was so you could check out my ass as I walked away."

"Absolutely not," he denied, although she was spot on.

"If you're going to ogle someone, Patrick, don't do it facing a glass half-wall. I could see your reflection," she said.

Patrick. His given name on her tongue made something inside feel light and warm.

He'd known she could see him. She'd always swayed just a little bit more too. It had been one of the perks of the job, a quiet flirtation between them.

"I'm taking a shower," she announced, picking up her bag. "I asked the front desk to send up room service. Can you answer the door?"

"Of course," he said, watching her retreat to the bathroom. He thought about following her, but decided that she might want a little privacy.

He took the ice off his ankle and went in search of his own bag, pulling out the pajama pants and tee-shirt he'd bought specifically for this trip. He didn't sleep in pajamas, but he had been uncertain of how his plan to seduce Teresa might end. He had several potential outcomes in his mind when he'd booked the rooms, wrote the code. They mind wind up necking on the beach, in the moonlight, or perhaps making love.

She might reject all of his advances and then have second thoughts when she returned to the room, hence the adjoining door, left carefully unlocked on his side. He might need to ask her for something, toothpaste maybe, while wearing black flannel pajama bottoms and no shirt.

A string of condoms sat beneath the wadded up clothes in his bag, staring at him.

He suddenly felt sick at how contrived and cold his plan had been. He had actually thought that it would have been easier to seduce her, to effectively force her to cheat on Marcus, than to just tell her he loved her and wanted her to stay. He would have made love to her, but that would have been on his end. In that scenario, she'd have thought they were just having sex and…

He buried the condoms under his clothes, shame washing over him.

He changed, tearing the tags off his pajamas, and answered the door when room service knocked. He tipped generously, then hung the do not disturb sign and locked the door.

He was lifting the lids off of trays when she emerged from the bathroom. She was wearing an oversize tee-shirt designed for sleep, navy blue. The neck was too wide, falling off one bare shoulder, and the hem hit her mid-thigh. It was supposed to be overly large, but she was swimming in it with her small frame.

He looked up at her face, and caught her staring at him, a little agog.

He raised an eyebrow.

"It's just I've never seen you in normal clothes before," she said. "Unless it was for a case. I always sort of wondered…" She took a breath. "Seeing you in pajamas is almost as shocking as seeing you naked."

He thought for a moment. "If it's less shocking, I could be naked," he offered.

She grinned at him, swatting his arm, then sat down at the small table and began eating her breakfast. Eggs and toast for him, and tea—bless her. She'd ordered a bowl of fruit and multi-grain toast, orange juice, not coffee.

He realized then that she didn't want coffee breath and he grinned.

"What?" she asked, spearing a strawberry on her fork.

"Nothing," he said.

They ate quickly, both of them famished, then she said, "I'm going to sleep for a bit."

"Okay," he replied, his eyes never leaving hers.

He could see her formulating the question in her head, trying to articulate that she wanted him close but wasn't offering sex.

"Do you want to sleep with me?" she asked.

"Yes, in both regards," he said warmly, reassuring her with his smile.

She flushed and glanced down. "It's just… I don't know what you need," she said.

He was confused, but she continued. "I used to think about the fact that you were so alone." When she looked up her eyes were wet. "You never…when was the last time someone held you?"

He swallowed thickly, a knot of pain in his throat. There had certainly been times when he'd wanted to go to her, wrap his arms around her and pull her close, to relish the feel of another warm body against his, to forestall his loneliness.

"And I don't want to rush you because you haven't been touched, not lovingly, in so long," she finished quietly.

In that moment he loved her even more, something hadn't thought possible.

"Lie down with me?" he asked hoarsely.

She nodded. She moved to bed, hesitating suddenly, uncertain of how proceed.

He saved her the trouble, standing up and pulling the sheets down the bed. He gestured for her to slide in, then laid down beside her, pulling the sheets up over them both. She immediately turned to him, resting her head on his shoulder, throwing her arm across him. He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. Her hair was damp on his neck.

Her weight was reassuring, blissful.

"I have another question," she said softly.

"Fire away." He stroked the bare skin of her arm.

"You never take off the socks I bought you," she said. "Please tell me you're washing them?"

He grinned. "I went online and ordered ten more pair. I wondered when you'd ask," he ask.

"You went online?" she asked dryly.

"I'm not incompetent," he said. "Anyway, it was fun, watching you glance at them every day and get this horrified look on your face."

She pinched him. He kissed the crown of her head. After a bit she slid her leg over his.

The room was dark and cool, the sound of the air conditioning clicking on and off almost hypnotic.

He wanted to stay awake and savor the feel of her small, warm body pressed against him, but fatigue got the better of him. Just as he felt her breathing even and deepen he fell asleep.

_**Reviews are awesome, please leave one!**_


	3. Chapter 3

**This chapter is rated M for sex. If you don't like that, you can skip this bit and not miss anything critical to the story. And please review. Please**!

He slept soundly and dreamlessly. He woke to a pleasant warmth at his side and the smell of Teresa's soap. A smile crept across his face before he opened his eyes.

He guessed it was late afternoon by the angle of the light slanting through the French doors. Teresa had rolled onto her side, her bottom pressed against his hip. He rolled over, spooning her, brushing her hair to the side and kissing her neck.

He felt rested, reenergized, and very much in love.

When he'd packed his bag for Miami, seduction on his mind, he'd been gripped occasionally with anxiety. He hadn't made love to a woman in twelve years. There had been Lorelei, but that had be fucking, and it wasn't the same thing. He had wondered if his plan would fall apart the minute he was faced with a naked Lisbon, waiting for him to act on his innuendo.

Now he had no such hang ups. He realized this was as easy as opening the Pandora's box of secret fantasies he'd built up over the years. He gave himself free reign to touch her now, his hands trembling a little.

He brushed the smooth skin of her thigh, dragging the hem of her nightshirt up. His fingers brushed the cotton of panties, then the skin of her stomach, downy and soft. He continued upward until he stroked the velvety underside of her bare breast.

She made a sound somewhere between a purr and a sigh, and he knew she was awake. He waited for her to slap his hand away, and when she didn't, palmed her breast, squeezing, massaging. His lips brushed her neck, peppering little kisses there.

He felt her nipple harden against his palm, felt her breathing shift. She arched into his touch, her backside pressing firmly against his erection.

"Patrick," she said quietly, breathlessly.

He stroked her lovingly, teasing her nipple into a firm point, wondering what it would taste like against his tongue. He sucked her earlobe into his mouth, bit down gently.

She moaned, and he relinquished her breast, his fingers skimming down her belly to slip inside the elastic band of her panties. Her breath hitched as he stroked her, finding her silky-wet and hot. He let go of her ear, groaned into the side of her neck, nipped her there.

She rocked her ass into his hips, her hand grasping his forearm as he stroked her, the pad of his middle finger petting her clitoris, moving in soft, circular motions. Her nails bit into his skin when he slipped that finger inside of her, her body clenching around him instinctively.

He kissed her shoulder. This was enjoyable, but the angle was all wrong for what he wanted. He couldn't see her. He didn't know if her nipples were a dusky rose or a coral pink or a muted brown. He was willing to bet that her practical cotton panties were brightly colored, something whimsical. He pulled his hand away, grasping her shoulder and rolling her onto her back. Her eyes were wide and dark, her cheeks flushed.

She kissed him, her hands slipping under his shirt and tracing the muscles on his abdomen. A hot pulse of desire tugged at him. She opened her mouth and he entered her with his tongue, the way he wanted to enter her with his body. She sucked at him and he groaned, squeezing her hip with a little too much force.

He grabbed the edge of her night shirt and pulled it up over her body. She sat up, letting it slip over her head, and he tossed it on the floor. He pulled off his shirt and pajama bottoms while they were at it, her hands immediately finding his chest, her nails scratching at his nipples.

He kissed her again, then propped himself up one arm, looking at her, staring with open lust, his eyes tracing every curve and valley, every shadow and swell. She was pale and slender and beautiful, her breasts surprisingly full for her petite figure, tipped by pale pink nipples that were pebbled and hard. Her panties had red and pink hearts on them and he grinned.

"What?" she huffed, a little self-consciously.

He bent down to take her nipple in his mouth, laving it with his tongue, sucking at it until it was stiff and she was scratching at his scalp.

He pulled her panties down with his free hand, and she kicked them off. His fingers found her again, slipping easily inside her warmth, stretching her. She was tight and clenching, her body tugging him deeper, holding him still.

"Oh," she said a little breathlessly, rocking her hips up toward him.

He pressed his thumb against her clitoris, rolling it with the callused pad of his finger.

She made a keening noise, and he continued to touch her, his mouth hot against her breasts, tongue teasing, demanding. His hand moved in a circular motion, timing the pressure, the rhythm to her every little gasp and shudder.

He read her body, listened to it, obeyed its silent pleas. It was so easy. She was responsive and warm. He grinned against the skin of her breast when he felt her legs trembling against his, and then she came for him—_for him_—her hips rolling with the spasms that gripped his fingers, her head thrown back against the pillows.

He let her come down, kissing her mouth even as he moved between her legs and nudged them further apart. She opened her eyes and grasped his erection, squeezing him. He sucked in a lungful of air from between clenched teeth.

"There are condoms in my bag," he said hoarsely.

She licked her lips, her expression self-conscious, but never took her eyes off his. "I'm on the pill," she said. "And I've never…without a condom, so…"

It was different between them, he understood. He didn't want anything between them either.

He kissed her again and then she pushed at his chest, rolling him over. She straddled him, and he grinned up at her wickedly. She smiled back, biting her lip even as she guided him inside her body.

There were words for this. Heat. Wet. Bliss. He couldn't think of any of them though, and when she threw back her head and started rolling her hips, he couldn't think at all.

She found the rhythm she wanted, one hand braced on his thigh behind her, the other moving to stroke herself.

He had not doubt that Teresa was a woman responsible for her own orgasms. She took few lovers, and he expected that when she did she made sure she enjoyed herself regardless.

That ended now. Her orgasms, as far as he was concerned, were his sacred duty, one he intended to relish.

He batted her hand away and she opened her eyes, her mouth falling open as he parted her with his thumbs. He could see where they were joined and it made his breathing harsh and ragged. He pressed against her clit with this thumb, pressing into her with every downward motion she made.

She gasped, her movements more intense, searching. Dark hair fell over her breasts, across her face.

His own body was surging with pleasure, with need, and it took all his willpower not to roll her beneath him and take her roughly.

She swore when she came a second time, and he grinned, then moaned as her body clasped his.

She caught her breath, hands on his chest, then opened her eyes and regarded him. A wicked smile crossed her face, and she began to move again, her rhythm wild, and rough, and fast, and designed to make him grasp her hips and swear. Now his head was thrown back, his neck flush, his pulse erratic.

He gripped her hips, dictating her movements, his fingers bruising, as he thrust into her a final time, his entire body taut.

He was fairly certain he said her name several times and possibly "I love you," but he wasn't positive.

She fell across his chest, both of them sweaty and limp with pleasure. He traced mindless patterns on his back as his breathing eventually returned to normal.

"Wow," she said into his neck. She looked up, her hair sticking to her cheeks.

"Definitely wow," he agreed.

She sat up and pinched his arm, hard.

"Ow!" he said, rolling away from her. "What was that for?"

"We could have been doing that for months," she said, her face twisted in mock irritation. "But you had to wait till the last damn minute to tell me you loved me."

He reached for her, grabbing her arm and pulling her back on top of him. "I will do my best to make it up to you," he promised, kissing her.

And he did.


	4. Chapter 4

Teresa woke up with her face tucked into the crook of her arm and the sheets slung low across her back. She smiled, stretching, feeling languorous and boneless. There was a pleasant ache low in her belly. She wasn't used to this level of sexual gratification in a single day. Her body was over-sensitized, over taxed. She felt swollen and slippery, and she knew she'd remember what they'd spent the day doing every time she moved.

Jane had made good on his promise, leading her to the shower where he scrubbed her from head to toe, and then proceeded to make love to her again, quickly, roughly under the pounding spray, until they were both trembling and exhausted. Then they'd fallen back asleep, tangled in one another, unwilling to be apart even momentarily.

She sighed, opening her eyes, finding the bed empty. She vaguely remembered Jane kissing her shoulder and whispering something in her ear awhile back. She rolled over and looked at the nightstand. An origami frog waited for her, folded out of the hotel stationary. She unfolded the paper and read his note:

_In search of provisions. Will be back soon._

_U No Hoo_

_PS I love you_

_PPS You are a shameless cover-hog_

She smiled and set the letter down, running her fingers through her tangled hair. The alarm clock said that they'd slept through dinner and into early evening, and she was glad that Jane was coming back armed with food. Hopefully something sinfully caloric.

She thought about him then, and their lovemaking. It had been…magical, thrilling, tender. It had been all the things she'd imagined when she'd fantasized about him, but not for the reasons she thought. If he was able to anticipate her needs, to verbalize his without embarrassment, it wasn't because he could pass for psychic or because he was a confident show-man. It was because he'd known her better than anyone else for twelve years, and loved her for who knows how long. When he'd been inside her, looking at her eyes, kissing her mouth softly, worshipfully, he hadn't been _Jane_, he'd be _Patrick_. And Patrick was just a man. Some of the mystery, the glamor that surrounded him was gone, but it hadn't dulled his shine.

Jane was often unreachable, unreadable. Patrick was open to her, all his sins laid bare, and he was beautiful even if he was damaged. When he smiled his crinkle-eyed grin at her now it wasn't because he knew something she didn't, it was because he was right there with her, experiencing the moment with her, sharing it with her. She was finally in on the joke, the con, the ruse.

Unexpectedly she felt tears prick at her eyes. She thought back to nearly a decade earlier, back when she'd still run the Serious Crimes division of the CBI. She had walked into the break room for another dose of coffee and come across three female agents standing around an open bakery box, laughing. Female camaraderie was a precious thing in her world, and so she sidled over to join in whatever they found so entertaining.

"We were just talking about your Jane," one of them said. "Quite the handsome man you've got there, Teresa."

"He makes up for it by being a pain in the ass," she'd assured them.

"God, I wonder what's _like_," another had commented. "You know, in the sack. I swear he can read minds…"

"Lord, he'd be everywhere you wanted him to be and the places you _thought_ you didn't!"

One of them had fanned her face. "I bet he could you talk you into things you know you'd go to hell for."

They all burst out laughing, except her.

Her stomach had dropped then. She felt sick at their teasing, at their speculation. She justified it at the time by telling herself that if she'd walked in on a group of male agents speculating on how Van Pelt performed sexually, she'd have skinned them alive.

She'd said, "I don't know. You could ask his _wife._ Oh, wait…"

The comment, so uncharacteristically caustic and delivered with such disgust had shocked the group into silence, and it had stunned her. She'd stalked away, uncertain of her own mood.

The truth was even then she'd looked past Jane's glitz and glamor and she'd seen a dying man. It broke her heart. When they were joking about skills as a lover, his intuition, she'd imagined him being used as another cheap sideshow freak. She hadn't known about his celibacy then—not really—and she'd wondered if he took women to bed, dazzled them, gave nothing of himself. She wondered if his life was always that cold.

Sometimes she looked at him, sleeping lightly on the couch, and she'd thought about the fact that he had no home. She wasn't as close to her brothers as she wanted to be, didn't have as many friends as she should, but there were still people she could turn to for comfort. God, when was the last time anyone had held him? Had someone hugged him at the funeral, letting him sob into their shoulder, offering him comfort? She doubted it.

He kept a bubble of space around him that was impenetrable, smiling from his place inside it like everything was okay, which it clearly wasn't. There were so many times that she wanted to cross the line, to wrap her arms around his shoulders and tell him it was going to be fine.

When he hugged her right before he shot her it was unexpected, and she'd wondered then how desperate he really was. She felt things unraveling.

When he'd held her on the beach, it had just felt right. She'd stared off into space, not seeing anything, just feeling his warmth and realizing that they had finally gotten to this place. A decade of standing side by side, looking evil in the face, and now, finally, she was the one he trusted with the precious gift of touch.

And when she'd hugged him when he returned from South America it was because even across all that time and distance, they were still friends that way, their bond cemented. She was still the one person he wanted to touch the most. Sometimes, when jubilant, he gave people a quick squeeze or a peck on the cheek. But she got the lingering, rib-crushing hugs.

In retrospect, she should have realized he was in love with her in his own way.

The door to the room opened and she sat up. Jane walked in carrying a deli bag and a drink tray with two paper cups. He looked rumpled and adorable and his grin was apparently a permanent feature now.

He set the food down on the small table, their breakfast dishes having been cleared away. "Sleep well?" he asked.

She was mindful of the fact that she was naked except for where the sheet pooled in her lap. Her nightshirt was somewhere on the floor. She felt completely comfortable though. "Like a log," she said quietly.

He took in her expression and his smile fell. "What's wrong?"

She could see the fear in his eyes, the questioning. "I'm not having second thoughts," she said quickly. "It's just that, I realized that was wonderful as all of this has been, there's one thing I've always wanted to do with you, that I haven't yet, and it bothers me."

He raised an eyebrow and approached the bed, settling his weight onto the edge. "Are you telling me you have a naughty fantasy?" he asked cheekily.

She rolled her eyes. "No, Jane, it's totally normal. It's just, I've always wanted…"

She struggled for the words.

He misunderstood her entirely, tugging the sheet from her hips and bending to press a kiss to the juncture of her thighs. "Are you looking for the Latin term?" he asked against her skin, his voice wicked, dripping honey. "It's cu—"

"Not that," she said on a gasp. Although she was adding _that_ to the to-do list for later.

He sat up and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him down with her so they were lying flat, his head cradled on her chest. He wrapped his arms around her, settling his body so his legs were alongside her, not crushing her with his entire weight.

She stroked his shoulders, his hair, the back of his neck.

"This," she said quietly. "For every time I caught you looking so forlorn, when you thought no one was looking." She ran her fingers through his hair. "I'm here. And it's going to be okay."

She thought she felt his face contort against her chest, like he was swallowing back tears.

"I love you," she said, realizing that she hadn't spoken the words out loud before. "And everything is going to be okay."

He squeezed her so tightly that for a moment she couldn't breathe, pressed a kiss between her breasts.

When he looked up at her, his eyes were damp. "I love you, Teresa, more than you could possibly know."

She held him close. "I have a pretty good idea."


End file.
